


New Digs

by Anonymous



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: And Movie Logic Stupid, Angst, Anti-Android Racism, Brief suicidal ideation, Gen, Gun Violence, Hostage Situations, Language, No Beta, Protective Hank Anderson, Self-Indulgent, Temporary Character Death, af, also, i think
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-07
Updated: 2018-09-07
Packaged: 2019-07-08 07:22:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,842
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15925616
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: After Hank and his fellow officers are taken hostage at the station by Anti-Android radicals, things quickly escalate from bad to worse.





	New Digs

**Author's Note:**

> No Beta, no edit - if ya'll like, I will certainly clean this up later. Just got this out in like 3 hours. Please forgive any blatant grammar/spelling errors.

A career man at heart, Hank had willingly walked himself into an unfortunate amount of shit shows in his time. The scene that had greeted him upon entering the station that evening, however, was one for the history books. Some real top level crap, heaped and heaped onto his plate like he'd been given a goddamn bib and fork for it. 

Fortunately, suffering was rarely a lonely endeavor, and Hank had found himself clocked across the jaw, handcuffed and forced to his knees in a long line up of coworkers and friends. Chris had given him the usual nod and title, followed by Fowler's dry quip about Hank being on time for once. Reed remained quiet (another miracle), seething against his binds, sporting a bloody nose that went nicely with Chen's busted lip and black eye, the woman restrained to one of the desks. 

Good, Hank thought, wishing he'd been able to witness the hell Tina had given the three jackasses in hoodies and neon paint. He supposed they deserved some credit, however. After all, they had managed to blow their way through reception and take half the fucking precinct hostage with nothing more than a couple shotguns and a pipe bomb. 

“I'd like to apologize for earlier, Lieutenant,” Connor said, volume low, but tone casual from where he sat on Hank's left. 

Hank frowned, watching the clear leader of the group getting frustrated on the phone, the other two keeping their distance, shotguns at the ready. From what he and his partner could gleam, they were some sort of human supremacy group that had taken offense with the arrest of their bigoted leader.

SWAT was on the line trying their damnedest to find a solution that neither required the release of a dangerous man, nor the gambling of the hostages' safety.

“What for?” Hank asked as Goon 2 glanced in their direction. They had received no orders to be silent, only quiet. 

“This morning,” Connor clarified, his own gaze glued to Goon 3, the biggest of the bunch, “When I had commented on our recent string of easy cases. It appears I did, in fact, jinx us.” 

The chuckle was small and needed, and Hank smiled when he saw Connor do the same in his peripheral. God, they were seriously fucked.

“Tell you what,” Hank said, “When we get a chance to clock out, you buy me a proper steak dinner and I'll forgive you. Deal?” 

Connor nodded, “Deal.” 

“Better have room for three at that table,” Fowler interjected. 

“Not all of us have the luxury of a Captain's salary,” Hank said, but Miller interrupted him. 

“I get tax breaks for Damian, I'll foot what Connor can't. Hell, I'll buy the beer.” 

“Fuck,” Reed breathed, voice a little congested thanks to the blood congealed in nose, “I can smell that shit already – Tina, you in?” 

Tina spit a mouthful of blood onto the bullpen carpet, then seemed to consider her options before she decided, “Yeah, I could use a break. Annie's in Florida with her folks for the weekend, might as well get a night out in while I can.” 

“Got ourselves a fucking party,” Hank said, then turned to Connor, not missing the fidgeting of the two gunmen during their little conversation, “How're our odds, son?” 

Whatever Connor's fancy programming had to say about their situation was lost beneath a sudden scream of frustration followed by the sound of a burner phone cracking against the wall. 

“Mother- _FUCKERS_ ,” Leader boy screeched, gripping his hair beneath his hood and breathing harshly through his nose. 

“Dylan,” Goon 2 warned, but Dylan glared heavily at them. 

“No, those fucking cock-sucking cunts won't even tell me what prison he's in. They keep trying to talk me in fucking circles! They're not listening!” 

“Easy man,” Goon 3 said from behind them, “Haven't even been here for two hours, they're not desperate yet.” 

“Yeah,” Goon 2 agreed, “Give them time to stew, really put the pressure on them.” 

Giving his compatriot a long consideration, Dylan twitched his hand at his side, his weight bouncing on the balls of his feet. He was agitated, beyond that, and there was a look in his eye Hank had learned not to trust in perpetrators like him. Equally qualified for the job, Hank noticed the rest of their little line up tense as they too picked up on the turn in their host's demeanor. 

Then, Dylan met Hank's steady gaze, and they stared at each other for a good moment until something clicked behind in the kid's eyes. With a snap of his fingers, Dylan ordered Goon 2 to retrieve the phone, then nodded at Goon 3 – and suddenly Connor was being pulled to his feet, and Hank's heart stumbled over its next beat before picking up the pace. 

“Hey!” 

“Don't,” Connor growled, his voice low and commanding, his eyes hard when they flashed to Hank while he was dragged over to where Dylan stood. He was left to stand on his own while Goon 3 meandered back to their post, and Hank was unsure if he was still breathing, his entire person focused on the criminal eying his partner. 

Dread was an awful, awful feeling, and Hank felt nauseous at the pit of it that had settled in his chest.

Dylan took the burner phone off Goon 2, then leaned his hip back against the desk. He played around with dialing a number for a few seconds, never looking Connor in the eye. For his part, Connor remained still, ever the image of a collective calm, LED cycling softly on yellow while he assessed the situation. 

“So,” Dylan began, bringing the phone to his ear, the other end ringing, “Said you were a negotiator?” 

“That's correct.” 

“You any good?” 

“So far,” The tug at the corner of Connor's mouth was tight, forced. He and every other body in that precinct were coiled tight, waiting for the chance to spring. 

Dylan tilted his head back, lifting his lip in an “uh-huh”, though he said nothing past that until the phone made its fifth ring, “You know we wouldn't be here if you were human.” 

Then there was a click and a voice on the other end, and Dylan pulled his gaze from the android's. 

“Yeah, that's right,” Dylan answered into the phone, and Hank watched Connor's LED speed up momentarily as he undoubtedly connected to the call. Connor frowned, brow furrowed while Dylan continued his conversation. 

“Agent. Agent. Agent,” Dylan tried, then sighed, “You done? Look, I just want my friend back, okay? Nathan Hughes is an innocent man, he didn't do shit, and these shit stain cops fucking know it. They fucking framed him because what he was saying was the goddamn truth! 

“But the government doesn't wanna hear it! Because they failed, they fucking failed this country. Their corrupt little money making scheme backfired, but it's not them who's paying for it.”

Dylan took in a deep breath, visibly calming himself, “People are out of work. Can't buy food, can't buy medicine, can't keep the lights on to read to their kids or the water runnin' to bathe. And why? Huh? Ya'll rather Barbie get to play house than make sure real people, real _living_ breathing people get to eat another day.” 

Connor flinched back when Dylan suddenly held the phone in front of him, his LED splashing red. 

“Say hi,” Dylan commanded. 

Connor glanced at Hank, then gave a simple, “Hello?” 

“Hear that,” Dylan snapped back into the phone, "That's one of your precious plastic pets. Dressed head to toe like some fucking retail mannequin. Ya'll say it's alive. Ya'll insist this thing has a heart, a soul, enough humanity to be protected, but do ya'll really believe that?” 

Letting out another deep breath, Dylan took a few steps back from Connor, and Hank watched Goon 2 tense, almost feeling the same tension rolling off 3. He didn't like this. He didn't like this. This was bad, bad, bad. 

And then it got worse. 

Dylan slowly drew a handgun from under his hoodie and aimed the barrel squarely between Connor's eyes. Hank swore the world froze in that moment, smothered beneath the thickening air. The dread that had settled in Hank's chest rose to his throat, and he hyper focused on the distance between Connor and that damn pistol. 

For his part, Connor refused to flinch. The only outward sign he gave of distress was a quick flash of red at his temple, the rest of him having hardened to steel. 

The moment hung for far too long, everyone waiting for the flash of fire or the ease of Dylan's aim. 

“I get the feeling you don't think I'm serious,” Dylan said, and Hank swore, if he made it out of here, he was going to beat the living shit out of whomever was on the other end of that line, “I asked for the prison Nathan was being held in. Give me that, and we can talk about the rest. Until then, you have twenty seconds before I shut this android off with a bullet to the head… 

“20.” 

“Hey shit stick,” Reed growled, “Pick on someone who can fight back, you fucking loser.” 

_19_

“You don't have to do this son,” Fowler tried to reason. 

_18_

“We can access the records right here, right now. Just-” 

_17_

“Shut it,” Goon 3 gave Fowler a shove between the shoulder blades with their shotgun. 

_16_

“Lay off!” Chen shouted the same time Chris ducked his head to mumble something to their captain. 

_15_

Connor's gaze remained steady down the barrel of the gun. LED yellow, yellow, red. 

_14_

Hank never blinked, never breathed, afraid any movement would break the moment for the worse. 

_13_

Reed spat on the floor, “Calling us shit stains, we're not the morons whose friend got wasted and arrested for pissing on the clinic _they_ set fire to.

_12_

“If you're half as stupid as he is, you could have saved us the night and turned yourselves in, pussies” 

_11_

“Wanna be next, fuckface?” 2 asked, voice stressed. 

_10_

“I hate coming in second-” 

_9_

“Reed,” Fowler snapped, glaring at his subordinate, but Tina wasn't taking anymore.

_8_

“Fuck YOU,” Chen cried, “You think you can get away with this? You think you're gonna get what you want?” 

_7_

Goon 2 tightened their jaw, “What I want is for you to shut the fuck up!” 

_6_

“Tough shit,” Miller said, tone unexpectedly deadly.

_5_

“Connor,” Hank breathed. 

_4_

Connor finally turned his gaze from Dylan, meeting Hank's instead. 

_3_

His face must have shown a bit of what he was feeling, because Connor's brow furrowed in worry and his light finally stayed red. 

_2_

There was a sting in his eyes when Connor smiled at him. Genuine, soft, comforting, and sad. Hank wanted to look away. 

He couldn't. 

“One.” 

When the shot came, it was like thunder hammering down on Hank's chest. Squeezing every last ounce of warmth from his existence and stripping the world of its light. He saw blue, bright and splattered, heard a ringing in his ears that built and built and built until his pulse drummed silent in his head. 

There was shouting, and movement, and the unraveling of a hundred thousand moments that had once been tangled into a life, bundle behind warm brown eyes. All lost in a hollow, glassy stare, a red light flickering, flickering, dead. Dead. 

He was dead. 

Connor was dead. 

Hank's world snapped back into focus with a shaky gasp. 

Fuck. 

Oh fuck, no. 

“Connor.” 

“Hank,” Fowler, “Hank, look at me.” 

Fuck no.

“Lieutenant?” Chris called, worried. 

No. 

_No._

“Thirty minutes, or I actually shoot something alive.” 

Fowler slammed into Hank the moment he lunged forward, special prick number 2 raising their gun in a panic. He didn't care. He didn't fucking care. He'd fucking ram that thing down their throat and pull the goddamn trigger himself. 

“Get off,” Hank growled at Fowler, not missing dead man 3 backing up. Dylan, bless his walking corpse, at least had the decency to look disturbed at the Lieutenant's sudden outburst. 

“Calm down,” Fowler ordered, both at a loss in the struggle with their hands firmly secured behind their backs, though Hank managed to scoot out from under him and into the wall next to the break room. His breathing was hard and shallow, and that ringing threatened to return.

“Fuck YOU!”

“Lieutenant!” Fowler barked, and Hank stopped seething long enough to meet his Captain's stern gaze, “Calm. Down.” 

And there was a tremble in Jefferey's jaw, the telltale sign of a barely contained rage, but a caged one nonetheless, mastered over the long years of their careers. Now is not the time, that look had said on far too many occasions before. 

Now is not the time. 

“Fuck,” Hank said with a watery choke, and pressed his head into the wall, eyes closed against the pressure building there. _Fuck._

Jesus. Fucking. Christ, Hank banged his head with every silent curse, feeling the room focus in on him. Why here? Why today? Why Connor? 

Why Connor. 

Leaning forward with a wave of dizziness, Hank forced himself to look over where his partner lay. Blue had spread around the android's head from where a neat hole by his temple indicated the source of his end. His eyes had remained open, forever glued to the spot Hank had been knelt, bound and useless. Connor had fallen onto his back, one hand slightly stretched out at his side, as though he'd tried to move before the black had claimed him. 

Fuck. 

Fuck. 

Connor had deserved better, deserved more. So much more. 

Time dragged into a crawl after that. 

Seconds ticked by like minutes, minutes like hours, and every space between the weary bodies present was filled with a thick quiet. Chris and Gavin kept themselves upright, Gavin with a freshly bloodied nose after he'd made one threat too many. Tina looked away from the rest of them, counting ceiling tiles while Jeffery sat against a pair of desks, keeping a constant vigil over Hank. 

Possibly thinking to keep the peace, Goon 3 had grabbed a coat off the back of a chair and mercifully laid it over Connor's head and shoulders. Other than that, no one else had moved or talked, Dylan sitting on Reed's desk, feet swaying, phone held absently in his hand. 

Sumo was old, Hank had decided as the thirty minutes ticked down, Jeffery would take him in. He'd volunteer himself for the next round. Everyone else had families to go home to, to look out for. Connor probably wouldn't have been happy to hear any of that. In fact, if he had even gotten a whiff that Hank was thinking that way again, he'd bump Hank's next therapy appointment up a few days. 

Hank would have grumbled about being able to handle his own damn emotions, but he'd go anyway. Much as he had hated the idea at first, he'd warmed to the sessions, feeling a little lighter each time he came home after, being able to put sense to a lot that had just rattled around in his head before. Or hell, even just finally having someone he didn't have to feel guilty dumping that bullshit on. Plus, Connor usually had something special (greasy) waiting for him… 

Huh, Hank smiled, maybe the dinner had been less innocent than he'd thought. Trained him like the damn dog. 

The silence was finally broken with the default chime of the burner phone, the little plastic screen lighting up with an unknown number. Dylan checked one of the clocks on the precinct wall, a little smirk playing on the shit's lips when he say thirty minutes had yet to pass. 

“Glad you decided to listen to reason,” The smug bastard answered, then his face dropped. 

Nobody missed that. 

Sitting straighter, Hank watched carefully while Dylan's eyes widened, his pulse increasing to the point that it was visible through his neck. 

“H… How?” Dylan asked, voice small and breathy. He swallowed at the reply, then the call went dead, and Dylan simply stared at the dark phone in his hand. 

2 tightened their grip on their gun, “Dylan?” 

Dylan looked up at his name, but he couldn't seem to get the proper words out. 

“Well,” 3 prodded, “You get the prison or what?” 

“No,” Dylan said. 

Then the lights went out. 

Hank's breath caught in his throat. 

Something clinked across the floor, something metal and hollow, and Hank barely registered that the sound was familiar – a second too late and he would have been blinded by the flash grenade. Instead, he suffered only that infuriating ring again, the sound painful, but not nearly as nauseating as the light would have been. 

He blinked through the noise, hearing a panicked shout, then a shot went into the air, thankfully no one cried out after – then there was the sickening thud of flesh on flesh. Next came the chill inducing sound of bone breaking and Goon 2's strangled cry of agony. 

Dylan called out before he was swiftly silenced with a choked gasp. Goon 3 fired blindly in their direction, but a flash from the pistol saw them incapacitated, their moaning joining that of the other two.

Far too quick for Hank's liking, the action stilled, letting the bullpen fall back into silence until Tina called for a sound off. 

“Everyone okay?” 

“Reed pissed himself-” 

“Shut up!” 

“Don't know how,” Fowler sighed, “But I'm alive and well. Hank?” 

“Yeah,” He confirmed, their captors moaning their own status. Fuck them. He would have said more, but there came the unmistakeable footfalls of an android headed in his direction.

Hank relaxed, somewhat thankful SWAT had finally decided to _do_ something about the situation, even if their solution of a robo-ninja was about twenty minutes too late for him. 

“Took your damn time,” Hank mumbled in the darkness, feeling their android savior reach for his cuffs and simply snap them open the same moment the lights came back on, nearly blinding Hank after all. Though he could blame most of that on the pristine white of the android's uniform. 

“Sorry, Hank-” 

He'd barely gotten a glance at that damned freckled face, drawn into action by the voice alone. Hank threw his arms around the android, pulling him in tight for a hug. 

And goddammit- 

“Shit,” Hank breathed against the android's neck, hands twisted into the dumb CyberLife uniform, needing to confirm as much of their solid, living presence as possible, “Fuck, son. Don't you ever fucking do that to me again. I thought… Shit, I was afraid this was it.” 

Loathe to separate, Hank pulled back, ignoring the SWAT team filing into the bullpen, heading for the others. His elated sense of relief did startle to a halt, however, when blue met blue instead of brown, and Hank let go entirely, frowning hard at the RK900 stitched over the black and white jacket's breast. 

He hadn't missed the expression of hurt, nor the flash of red of the LED at the loss of contact, but Hank was still reeling from the sudden whiplash of emotion. 

“Sorry,” He said. He was unable to move away from the RK when the android reached out and put a steadying hand on Hank's ankle, the hurt on their face melting into understanding. 

“Hank,” They said, making sure the man looked them in the eye, “It's me. It's Connor. I promise. I transferred, successfully. It's me. It's entirely me.” 

When Hank's mind drew a blank on what to say, “Connor” scooted closer, placing his other hand on Hank's shoulder. 

“I can prove it,” The android offered, then continued on anyway, “Your dog's name is Sumo. Your son's name is Cole. Your favorite thing to eat is the double decked cheeseburger from the Chicken Feed with onion, tomato, mayo, and lettuce. You like Heavy Metal and you love Jazz, but…” 

The RK glanced over their shoulder, then leaned in closed, whispering in a conspiratorial tone, “The most listened to track on your phone is the 2007 Pop Classic, Gimme More by Britney Spears.” 

“How do you know that?” Hank demanded, and Connor lifted a knowing brow. 

Then in a perfect imitation of the singer's voice simply said, “It's Britney, bitch.” 

The bark of laughter startled both of them, though Connor recovered enough to nearly blind Hank a second time with a smile as the man tried to breathe through the sudden fit, dizzy with relief. God, oh thank god - 

Hank pulled Connor back into a hug, and this time Connor melted into the embrace, resting his head on Hank's shoulder. Mindful of his own strength, Connor returned what he could of Hank's death grip on him, and thankfully allowed his partner to wet his shoulder with tears in silence. 

When they once more pulled away, Hank kept a hand on Connor's shoulder, placing the other against the boy's cheek, overjoyed at the warmth beneath his palm. Connor gazed back with pure affection, and Hank nodded. Yeah. Fuck, yeah. 

He'd have missed that. 

Allowing Connor to help him to his feet, Hank notice of his partner's new digs, placing his hand's on the kid's shoulders to get a proper feel for the new and improved boy wonder. Around them, the others were being ushered out to the awaiting medics, everyone momentarily taking part in Hank's appraisal. 

“You grew,” He noted. 

“Yes,” Connor agreed. 

“Good,” Hank clapped Connor's shoulder, then leaned in and carefully warned, “Because now that we're eye to eye, I don't have to feel guilty about kicking your scrawny ass if you tell anyone about Britney, got it?” 

“Got it.” 

“Good,” Hank gave Connor's shoulder another pat, his gaze softening again as they stood there, “Don't know how Sumo's gonna react to the new look though.” 

“I imagine we'll all need a period of adjustment,” Connor admitted, then tilted his head to indicate they should begin their departure, “Although this body's improved capabilities far outweigh the initial discomfort.” 

“Oh yeah?” Hank asked, leading the way out into the lobby, bracing himself to ignore the various lights flashing outside the precinct door, “So, what, you got lasers now or…?” 

“Hm,” Connor hummed, then said excitedly, “I might.” 

Hank laughed again, crossing the street to the parking lot, Connor not far behind. 

“Where'd that thing come from, anyway?” 

“That might be best left for home, Hank.” 

“Oh no,” Hank shook his head and opened the driver's side door, “You owe me a steak dinner, remember?” 

Connor grimaced, and Hank frowned. When the android remained silent, the pair staring at each other over the car roof, Hank narrowed his eyes in suspicion. 

“Connor.” 

“Yes, Hank?” 

“Did you die to get out of buying me dinner?” 

“No,” Connor turned and started a brisk pace down the sidewalk. 

Hank cursed and started after him, not prepared for the android's improved stride length. 

“Connor? Connor!” Goddammit. 

Fucking androids, Hank smiled, bursting into a sprint.

END

**Author's Note:**

> Britney Spears (1985) is older than Hank Anderson (1981) and that was my only inspiration for this. My sincerest apologies.


End file.
